The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel

by Lorna Graham

  Socially, things finally seemed to be picking up. She even had a date.

  Oliver was a musician who played guitar for several bands whenever one of their own members was sick or out of town. He’d been sitting two bar stools over at the Chelsea Corner, where Eve and Klieg had gone for a drink after the LaForge show. When Klieg had excused himself to the restroom, Oliver had leaned across to her.

  “Isn’t he a little old for you?”

  “He’s my friend,” said Eve, irritated.

  The young man was handsome, with hair the color of wheat, like many of the boys back home. There were so few blond men in New York; he made for a nice change, if nothing else.

  “I was just kidding.” He grabbed at the bowl of popcorn between them. “Seen any good art today?” he asked, nodding at the sheaf of gallery leaflets she’d put on the bar. They chatted about a space they’d both liked and a particular piece there, an impressionistic nude of a water nymph. It was two-for-one happy hour, and he bought Eve another drink. “Cheers,” he said as the bartender put their glasses down. They toasted. Just before Klieg returned, Oliver asked for her number.

  It took more than three weeks for him to call, but Eve was prepared for the angst this time and found it easier to bear. She kept her voice casual as they spoke on the phone, a subtle wink that Yes, yes, we both know this is how the game is played.

  He suggested they go out the following Tuesday night. She’d earned a personal day by now and took pleasure in informing Mark that she was taking it.

  Highball took up a post just outside the closet and nodded or shook her head at various outfits Eve tried on. In the end, they chose a deep rose wool shift from the sixties and paired it with drop pearl earrings and a black satin clutch. Eve knew better than to expect Oliver to be some kind of knight in shining armor, but an evening of pleasant conversation, an evening spent doing what the young and eligible were supposed to do in New York, was more than enough.

  Donald groused. “What about ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’? We’re at a critical point in the story. Do you not see that, unlike your quasi-romantic escapades, my work has lasting meaning …?”

  Donald was frustratingly inconsistent. One minute he was eager for her to “sow her wild oats,” the next he was irked because she had a date. She assuaged him with a barrage of soothing words until he left, which took far longer than it should have. She was so nervous about being late for Oliver that she dropped her keys twice as she attempted to lock the door.

  She arrived at the appointed corner and, confused, checked the address to make sure she was in the right place. Pushing through the glass door, she found herself inside a giant box of an Italian restaurant, a chain establishment, with a salad bar occupying a large central area. Aside from several families with small children dotted around the cavernous room, it was mostly empty.

  “Hey, you made it,” Oliver said, rising from a small bench next to a sign saying Hostess Station and kissing her on the cheek. He wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising some band called Freak Show, and high-top sneakers. Perhaps he noted some surprise in her expression because he hastily explained, “I know it’s not romantic, but there’s a method to my madness. You’ll see.”

  “Ah,” said Eve.

  The hostess, in a green uniform, matching visor, and black sneakers, approached. “Table for two?”

  “Actually, two tables for one,” said Oliver. When the hostess looked confused, he reached for his wallet, pulled out two orange slips of paper, and handed them over.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, handing them back. “This way.” She grabbed two poster-sized menus and led them across the room.

  Oliver whispered to Eve as they walked, “Each coupon is good for a dinner entrée on separate visits on Tuesday nights. I figure if we’re at separate tables, we’re technically on separate ‘visits.’ Starving artists have to be on their toes in this town. Score, huh?”

  They spent the next hour and a half at adjacent tables, eating bland manicotti with watery sauce and talking sideways at each other. Between multiple visits to the salad bar, where he seemed interested in nothing but bacon and croutons, Oliver waxed on about a guitar he wanted to buy and how tough the competition was for studio work. He was wildly self-absorbed and failed to ask her even one question about herself. By the end, Eve’s stomach was complaining bitterly and her neck was in spasm.

  Oliver suggested dessert but Eve had had enough. She stood and fished some money out of her wallet. When he asked what she was doing, she explained that she had an impatient short-story-dictating ghost waiting at home and really had to go.

  • • •

  The following week, Eve suffered through a particularly grueling night at work, her eyes nearly crossed from exhaustion. Every segment she worked on was rebooked after she’d written it, forcing her to start all over again. At eleven-thirty, just as she was gathering up her things, news broke of an avalanche in Colorado, from which six skiers had miraculously escaped. Damn, damn, damn. Now she’d have to wait till the bookers tracked down the survivors at the hospital. An hour later, when Sharon, the booker, finally gave her the information on the four survivors willing to talk, Eve placed four calls. Four times she asked, “What did you think when you heard the ski patrol’s voice coming through the snow and you knew you were going to be saved?” And four times she’d heard, recorded, and put into a briefing note, “Uh, um, you know, it was, like, you know, awesome.”

  It was after one-thirty by the time she dragged herself up the stairs, dreading having to go right back out again for Highball’s nightly walk. She braced herself for the usual bombardment of paws about her thighs and cracked open the door. A finger of light shot across the room, fanning out as she kicked the door open, but no dog appeared. Her eyes darted around the living room. “Highball?” Eve’s coat and bag slid down her arms and onto the floor with a plunk. The dog was never not by the door to greet her. Eve padded around, looking behind the bar and in the narrow space between the small fridge and the kitchen wall. Heart pounding, she ran into the bedroom, checking the closet and under the bed. “Highball?” No dog. Eve headed toward the bathroom but found her footsteps slowing. She had the feeling there was something terribly wrong. “You here?” she whispered as she pushed the door open and flicked on the light.

  There, holding herself eerily still in the corner by the claw-foot tub, sat Highball. She was staring straight ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes. Eve felt an icicle plunge into her stomach. She crouched beside the dog, but Highball didn’t so much as glance at her. As Eve reached out to touch her fur, the dog shook her head violently, her ears flapping like birds’ wings.

  Eve pulled back, startled. “Highball! What is it?” The dog brought her back leg forward and directed it into her ear and began to dig frantically. Eve prayed it wasn’t an ear infection, not at this time of night. She pulled Highball’s leg away and lifted up the shaggy ear to look inside. No sign of any irritation. But Highball began to dig again and to whimper piteously. Eve grabbed her face and looked into the deep chocolate eyes. What she saw was pure fear.

  “What’s wrong?” cried Eve. Her skin was crawling, her forehead sweating.

  And then she knew.

  “Donald!” she shouted. “Get out—get out of there now!” No response. She held Highball’s face, searching her eyes again frantically, wondering if she could actually see Donald, knowing she wouldn’t. He wasn’t possessing the dog, just as he never possessed her. He was simply poking around in the corners, like a homeless man in a garbage can. But it was enough to petrify Highball. “I mean it! You. Leave. Her. Right. Now!” Eve was shrieking in a voice she didn’t recognize. Thank goodness Mrs. Swan was still out of town or Eve would have woken the old woman up. The black and white tiles of the bathroom began to swim. Eve steadied herself by gripping the edge of the tub. “Out!”

  Everything went still. She felt a familiar channel open, signaling Donald’s arrival. But something was different. Suddenly, she was aware of a hundred smells: t
he saltiness of a speck of dried olive stuck to the side of the tub from a bath-time martini, the metallic scent of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, even the bitter damp of the morning’s coffee grounds still in the machine in the kitchen. Heavens, she thought. Is he bringing Highball with him?

  Then suddenly, with a firm click, Donald was in and the smells disappeared. Eve looked into Highball’s eyes again and saw that the terror had been replaced by mild confusion. Eve collapsed against the wall, breathing hard, crushing the dog to her chest.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” said Donald, tickling her cerebellum. “The four-legged one is fine. Believe me, there’s very little in there to disturb. I must say the trip over knocked the wind out of me, though. Never tried anything like that before.”

  “How dare you do that to her? What the hell were you thinking?” Eve demanded hoarsely, covering Highball’s ears.

  “I simply had to stretch my legs,” Donald replied, with defensive nonchalance. “You’re never around when I need you and I was bored to tears. We were supposed to continue working, remember? You’ve been putting me off for days and—”

  “Don’t! Don’t say another word,” hissed Eve, setting Highball down and marching into the living room. She grabbed the leash. “If you weren’t already dead, I’d—I’d—” She stepped into the hallway with the dog and slammed the door behind them.

  • • •

  She was still breathing hard as she hustled Highball onto the street. Her heart pounded with outrage so hard it sent vibrations out to her extremities, through her skin, and into the air. The brownstones’ wrought-iron gates, the spiky shadows they threw onto the ground, the awning of the bakery on the corner—everything seemed to be humming, as if she were walking through a Van Gogh. Highball still looked anxious and walked tentatively, as though across a bed of nails.

  In the kind of stupor that follows trauma, they made their way westward through the cold, still night. The moon hovered, its outline smeared across a sullen sky. The last few maidenhair leaves dusted the ground while the first Christmas wreaths adorned townhouse doors, as if fall and winter were clasping hands for a brief moment before fall let go and winter went on alone.

  They turned onto Bethune. Eve’s head was throbbing, her mind flitting like a bird from branch to branch. Donald had shocked her with his indifference to Highball.

  They marched on. When she looked down at her watch, she was stunned to see that twenty minutes had passed. Goose bumps invaded her flesh; in all the commotion she’d forgotten to put her coat back on. And she had no idea where they were now. Little West Twelfth? Gansevoort? Everything looked different, dreamlike. Remnants of chimney smoke from the evening’s fires perfumed the air like incense, and the trees stretched across to each other, creating a vaulted ceiling over the street like an al fresco cathedral.

  Eve realized another sound had joined the click of her boots and the faint scratching of Highball’s nails on the sidewalk. The noise made its way in from the edges. Where was it coming from? Somewhere back and to the left, around the corner. She recognized the hollow clipping echoing up from the ground: a horse. A police horse, out on patrol.

  The sound transported her. A horse on cobblestones: It was a sound you’d have heard on these streets two hundred years ago. A lonely prance through empty streets, a fugue in the night. Eve let her mind wander with her feet, imagining she was on her way home from dinner at the home of, say, Willa Cather. Perhaps Robert Frost had entertained them with a poem—

  Her trance was interrupted by Highball’s abrupt yank toward the curb. She pulled more forcefully than usual, and the leash, which was wrapped tightly around Eve’s hand, cut sharply into the soft place between her thumb and index finger. The dog crouched, arranged and rearranged her back feet to get them into proper position. While Eve would never relish this part of their relationship, she dreaded it far less than she once had. The key was not to think about what you were doing: Simply grab and go. Eve was just congratulating herself on this bit of vulgar wisdom when she glanced down. Highball’s run-in with Donald must have triggered some kind of shock to her system; the pile that was forming was three times its usual size. Eve reached for the sandwich bags she kept in a pocket attached to the leash and waited for it to end. At last, Highball shook her hindquarters daintily, and Eve bent over and began her work, though the Baggie seemed hardly capable of meeting the challenge.

  The clip-clopping was almost upon them. But it sounded odd, as if the horse was laboring, or teetering on the edge of something. Suddenly, Highball gave a sharp yelp and tugged hard on the leash, almost pulling Eve over. The moon flickered and the shadows of the privet branches shot out like streamers. Eve turned, but there was no horse. Only a very tall man. A very tall man in high-heeled shoes.

  “Your money.” Eve had to tilt her head back to take him in. His skin was pale, his hair spiky black. He was wearing leggings with a baggy sequined sweater under a wool peacoat. She stared at him, mute. “Look, are you retarded? Give me your money and do it fucking now.” He pushed up his sleeves, revealing a mean set of tracks going up his left arm and jagged scars across his wrist.

  Eve willed herself to follow what was happening but it was impossible. She was face-to-face with the Stiletto, a moment of crossed paths worthy of Dawn Powell. Eve wished she could see Chief Pell’s face at this moment. Not to mention Bliss’s.

  In a movement, he crossed to her, spun her around, and put the knife to her back. She felt its tip press through her blouse, grazing her flesh. His sour breath wound its way up her nostrils and deep inside her brain.

  “Stop fucking around.” He jerked her arm sharply upward, sending ripples of pain out from the socket. She felt like a roast squab, his for the pulling.

  “I don’t have any money,” said Eve, craning her neck. Wasn’t anyone hearing this? “I’m—I’m just walking my dog and—” Highball. She was in danger, too. Eve dropped the leash and nudged the dog with her foot. Run, girl, run.

  But Highball stood her ground and began to bark. The Stiletto kicked her hard. Highball yelped and then whimpered softly.

  “That dog makes another sound and I’ll kill it.” He was sounding unhinged now, reckless. Like he didn’t know where this was going. “And as for you. No money, what good are you?” With a jolt, Eve felt the knife press into the flesh just to the right of her upper spine. Her skin gave momentary resistance before allowing itself to be pierced—just slightly, she thought. She cried out, but he slapped a hand over her mouth. It smelled of sweat and Chanel No. 5. Her eyes closed. Pain radiated out from the knife wound like the scorching rays of the sun. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he was far too strong. This was it, she realized. It was all over. She threw her head back and looked up through the tree branches to the stars. Her knees gave way and she felt herself slipping into darkness.

  Suddenly, the hand on her chin wasn’t his, but Penelope’s. They were on her bed, facing one another, the glass of water between them.

  “You did this all by yourself? The pill—everything?” Penelope had asked.

  “Yes,” Eve had said.

  Penelope’s expression was pure wonder and tenderness. “There’s the girl,” she’d said softly. “There’s the girl.”

  Eve’s eyes flew open.

  Here’s the girl.

  She pulled free, barely noticing the knife’s twist on its way out. Then she stepped back and launched herself straight into the Stiletto’s solar plexus.

  “What the fu—” He was on the ground, writhing beneath her. She reached for his neck and as she deflected his kicks and jabs she noticed that he, like dear Dr. Tang, had a mole on his face. A big, brown mole. It seemed to be growing and stretching, now covering all of one cheek. His neck twisted wildly, his body bucking like a rodeo horse. She almost went flying, but the more he struggled, the stronger she became.

  He struck out and she felt her jaw explode, refueling her anger. Eve gripped his neck, pressing her thumbs deep into his Adam’s apple. He cough
ed and began to throw up. Tears mixed in with the vomit. “Stop … stuughugh,” he said. He thrashed a moment longer, then seized up, looking directly at her. They locked eyes in a moment of spine-tingling, intimate madness.

  Then, suddenly, he seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon and lay spent beneath her, his surrender hitting her like a double shot of whiskey. The world went swirly and she closed her eyes tight.

  A shriek intruded. A black and white car came barreling around the corner and slammed to a stop in front of them.

  “Freeze,” said a voice inside. A squat, olive-skinned police officer pushed open the driver’s-side door and leapt out. “Off her. Now,” she ordered, as her partner jumped out the other door. He was tall and angular. For some reason, he was aiming a gun at Eve’s head.

  “You heard the officer,” he said. “Get up and back away with your hands in the air. Slowly. Four steps. Let’s go.”

  Eve stood up on legs that felt like rivers and stumbled backwards. Her fingertips brushed the heavens and her breath came quick and shallow. From somewhere behind her, she became aware of yowling.

  “That your dog?” asked the woman officer. Eve nodded. “Shut it up.” Eve came down beside Highball. She checked the dog’s rib cage, which seemed all right if tender, and whispered soothing nonsense in her ear, while the male officer strode over to the heap on the sidewalk.